


Justice [Wears Tight Leather]

by kaihire



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Derek is the worst super hero ever, Derek/black leather OTP, M/M, Sterek Campaign, but werewolves are still a thing, no superpowers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-11-29 15:07:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaihire/pseuds/kaihire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beacon Hills is a safe, sleepy town. But when masked bad guys start committing crimes, it's going to take a masked hero to bring them to justice. A masked hero with a really sexy voice and uncomfortably tight uniform, to be specific.</p>
<p>Or, the one where Stiles starts to feel like he's living in a comic book and loves every second of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stiles Needs a Hero

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Paperclip](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paperclip/gifts).



> Written for the Sterek Campaign fanfiction auction.
> 
> I LOVE THIS PROMPT, BECKY. 
> 
> And I'm sorry if I'm going somewhere crack-y with it.

Of the things Stiles had expected to do this week, hanging upside down and blindfolded while someone robbed his local comic book store was totally not high on the list of probabilities. He wiggled a little, testing the ropes, but they were snug and he wasn’t precisely Houdini. More like Fail-ini, if anything, because seriously, who got caught in the middle of a robbery attempt at a comic book store?

 

Apparently Stiles Stilinski, that’s who. The only thing worse—Actually, no, he could think of a lot of things that would have been even more mortifying. This was good, all things considered. This was _totally_ good.

 

He wiggled again. The ropes dug in a little tighter. So that sucked.

 

“Dude, it’s not that I don’t think this is, you know, kinky, and I mean, I’m seventeen, I totally have a healthy appreciation for all things Google shouldn’t tell you about, but all the blood is sort of rushing to my head and it’s not a very nice feeling, and I don’t really understand why you can’t just tie me up behind the cash register the way—“

 

Ok, that got him jostled, and he spun around a little in his upside down cocoon, which felt _extra_ not good.

 

“ _Ow!_ Hey. Come on, I’m just trying to keep up a conversation here, you can’t blame a guy for—“

 

And that was when the masked dude robbing the store apparently decided he’d had enough of Stiles’ dulcet tones (which, really, he was going to take offence, he had it on very good authority—his own—that he had a perfectly nice voice and everyone ignored him rather than telling him to shut up, for the most part, so that totally meant it wasn’t annoying, and he even rambled on in his own head and wow, ok) because he gagged him with a bandana or something (he seriously hoped it wasn’t anything grosser) and then all Stiles could do was make whiny noises while he rocked back and forth from the ceiling.

 

What did this dude think he was, anyway? Some sort of comic book villain? Who seriously hung people up like that? Stiles figured he should be happy he wasn’t, like, _dead_ , but curiosity and all that—besides, it wasn’t like he had much to do right now. The least the guy could have done was tie him up somewhere with a few new issues of stuff and he could turn the pages with his nose or his tongue. Too bad he was gagged, or he would have offered that suggestion. Seriously, this guy was keeping Stiles from the latest issue of _Avengers Assemble_ , and that was just uncool, even if he’d heard it wasn’t as good as the previous one.

 

Luckily, Stiles didn’t have that long to bemoan his fate. There was a sudden crash—loud, glass breaking, alarms going off, the works—and the robber (Stiles figured) grunted and then there was a whole lot of kung-fu action or something, but without the really awesome punching sound effects that movies always had, and then things were more or less quiet aside from faint, unhappy-sounding moaning.

 

Stiles really hoped that was the robber and not an indicator that now there were gonna be two cocoons on the ceiling, though hey, misery and company and all that.

 

The gag suddenly got tugged away, and Stiles tongued the corner of his mouth where _hey,_ that could have been done more gently, ok?

 

“Um, please don’t kill me?”

  
That was sort of what you told people, right?

 

“I’m not going to kill you, you idiot. I came to save you.”

 

And wow, ok, talk about a voice you could jerk off to—what? He was _seventeen_! This was how his brain worked!—because all those clichés about velvet and silk and baritones and raspy things, yeah, _that_. Stiles squirmed a little and reminded himself that a person’s voice didn’t mean anything, and he visualized his would-be hero as one of the other dudes that hung out in the comic book store with him, right down to the unwashed hair and the recycled socks because hey, sometimes it was a stereotype, and sometimes it wasn’t. (Stiles lived the dream, ok?) Anyway, the visualization exercise totally helped with any inappropriate parties that might or might not have started accepting RSVPs in his pants.

 

But then, he was still hanging upside down. He wiggled again.

 

“So uh. Are you gonna let me down?”

 

“I’m going to let the police do that. That’s why I set off the alarm.”

 

“Um, dude, I hate to like, ruin your drama, but you can always call 911 instead of breaking windows, you know?”

 

“Shut up,” Hero Dude grunted, and then Stiles felt fingers exploring the knot that kept his blindfold in place and wow, ok, fingers on the back of his neck and head? Sort of a turn on, ok? Not his fault. Seventeen! “They should be here in a few minutes. You should be more careful.”

 

“How much more careful can I be?” Stiles whined. “I was spending my Wednesday night buying comics. Not precisely, like, walking on the wild side, here.”

 

Hero Dude made a derisive sound and gave up on the knot, which made Stiles whine a little. So he wiggled. He was totally down with the wiggling right now, especially considering it was _all he could do_.

 

“Sometimes the safest things are the most dangerous,” Hero Dude said, and Stiles would have stared at him, except there was a blindfold in place and everything. Which sucked.

 

“ _Seriously?_ Seriously. I’m _so_ judging you for that. That’s some cheesy-ass stuff right there, Hero Dude,” what? He was allowed to give the guy a secret identity, “and that’s coming from someone who thinks _Batgirl_ is classical literature—“

 

Why did everyone keep shutting him up tonight? Of course, Hero Dude did it a _lot_ better than Robber Dude, with a warm hand on his jaw and then faint stubble along his lower lip and seriously, _seriously_ hot lips on his and the faint taste of mint gum and not only was it Stiles’ first kiss, but it was absolutely the most erotic moment of his entire life.

 

“Holy shit,” he wheezed. “You just went all Peter Parker on me. Except gayer. In like, a good way. A really, _really_ good way, oh my god.” But Hero Dude wasn’t there to listen, because Stiles could hear him jogging out of the store and hopping out the broken window and yeah, those were police sirens rolling down the block.

 

Stiles was so dazed, he forgot to give a happy wiggle as the cops started to cut him loose, and even getting bitched out by his dad just washed right over him.

 

Beacon Hills had an actual superhero. Who was apparently into reenacting scenes from _Spider-Man_. With Stiles—at least once. (Once was totally better than never.)

 

His life was _awesome_.


	2. Alpha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing happens for two weeks, and Stiles is starting to think Beacon Hills is back to its boring status quo.
> 
> Stiles is totally wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was meant to have three chapters up by tonight. On the up side, chapter 2 is a double-length chapter. I hope you guys enjoy it!

“What’s the point of having a superhero around if our town is too boring to have any use for him?” Stiles whined, draping himself with an extra dash of theatrics across the diner’s counter. Mabel (they were always named Mabel, Stiles was sure, but this Mabel was _his_ ) just tutted at him and made sure to set his Oreo milkshake down where he wasn’t going to knock it over. Stiles was engaging in drama because the latest issue of the Beacon Hills Beacon (and really, whatever prospector had named the paper in the 1800s needed a dose of low-level Buddhist hell because, come on, a dungaree for some creativity, sir) proudly proclaimed that their town was 'in the top 10 of California’s safest places to live' for the 87th year running.

 

“This is so lame,” he muttered, tugging the red hood of his sweatshirt over his head and engaging his inner emo while scrolling through his phone. Scott “sorry dude I have to hang out with Allison tonight” McCall wasn’t on hand to temper Stiles’ boredom with some quality _Call of Duty_ time and Stiles was way too amped up to chill at home and work on his history project. The night was young, and he couldn’t sit still. He was half-way done with the project, anyway.

 

Stiles chewed on one of the drawstrings of the hood when the door behind him chimed, and he knew without looking who it was that walked in, because Mabel started fixing her hair unconsciously and sucked in her belly. (Stiles thought she was awesome just the way she was, but apparently being a rubenesque diner waitress who could have doubled as a pinup model didn’t come with an instant dash of self-confidence. Not that he told her about the pinup part. That would have been crossing a line, and totally ended his supply of exceptional milkshakes.)

 

“Coffee, black.”

 

“Right away, Deputy,” Mabel said, all _sotto voce,_ and Stiles resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He peeked out from under his hood. Yup, dad had a new deputy, and the Beacon Hills cheerleaders had already renamed him Hot Action Cop. He sort of was, though: all chiseled cheekbones, brooding expression, perfect hair, 5 o’clock shadow, ridiculous shoulder-to-waist ratio. Luckily, the uniform did nothing for him. He’d have looked better in police blues.

 

“Your father said you should be at home,” Deputy Asshole said, shooting Stiles a _Look_ , and Stiles huffed, chewing on the milkshake straw out of the corner of his mouth, his tongue still working on the drawstring cord. (He could totally tie another knot in it without getting it soggy with the milkshake. Stiles had untapped talents, ok?) This was why the dude’s otherwise impressive charms didn’t do much for him: the Sheriff had this guy in his back pocket. Almost literally. And from day one, all he’d done was glare at Stiles and express his disapproval for the fact that the Sheriff’s son was very clearly not up to snuff. “It’s not safe out.”

 

Stiles held up the newspaper and its headline. Hot Action Cop glanced at it and shrugged.

 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Stiles muttered.

 

Mabel came over with Deputy Asshole’s coffee, and he was about to take a sip when the radio on his shoulder crackled to life. (Stiles was pleased that it interrupted him before he could caffeinate. Dude had a serious case of douche-itis.)

 

“ _All units, all units: respond to the intersection of Brook and Main, hostage situation in progress. Be advised that suspect is armed and dangerous. Repeat, suspect is believed to be armed and dangerous._ ”

 

“Dude,” Stiles breathed, his eyes sparkling, and Hot Action Cop slapped two bucks on the counter before shooting him a look.

 

“Go _home_ , Stiles.” He paused dramatically by the door, and Stiles caught Mabel totally checking out his ass. It wasn’t that impressive in the poly-blend dress khakis, to be honest. It looked sort of square. Not that Stiles was looking. “Your father doesn’t want you getting hurt.”

 

And then the guy was gone in a flash of uniform. Stiles watched his cruiser pull out, and then quickly shoved $5 across the counter.

 

“You’re not going to finish your milkshake, honey?” Mabel asked, but Stiles was already out the door. Who were they kidding? It was Friday night and there was a _hostage situation_ in Beacon Hills. That hadn’t happened in—Stiles tried to go through his mental records as he got in the Jeep and toed the clutch—at least 100 years, and that’d been part of a bank heist. This? This was either a false alarm or something way more interesting.

 

He could hear fire trucks and an ambulance in the distance, but Stiles stuck to the back roads. He cut across the part of town that’d once been nothing but warehouses and now was mostly swanky warehouse conversion lofts, then turned left to head back towards Brook Street. The only thing _at_ the intersection of Brook and Main was the Beacon Hills Cinema. Stiles knew the main roads would be blocked off (not to mention, hello, the cops knew his car) but he was willing to bet nobody was going to be checking the alleys. He left the Jeep behind a car dealership and zipped his hoodie up, jogging the rest of the way to get to the back of the building.

  
Red and blue lights were flashing, so Stiles flattened himself against the wall and ducked down a side alley. He really didn’t want to be caught in any gunfire or anything, but he wanted to _see_ what was going on, and there was a fire escape to the building next door off of the side entrance. He just needed to pull down the ladder—and damn, ok, it was heavy—after climbing up on a dumpster, and then he could get up on the roof—

 

The side door burst open and out came the gunman, his arm looped around the hostage’s throat, a gun pressed to the dude’s head. Stiles recognized the kid in the cinema uniform from his physics class. Greenfield? Greenberg? Something like that. He had one of those faces you could never match to a name unless you were looking right at him. The gunman, on the other hand, was wearing a ski mask, and Stiles wanted to comment how it was really clichéd of him, but then the guy _spotted_ him and the gun was being pointed—

 

It happened too fast for Stiles to keep track of. One second, he was sure he was about to die in a poorly-lit side alley. He could practically _see_ the police photos of his body slumped against the dumpster, leaving a smear of blood and a grieving father, and holy shit, those were things that were not ok. And the next minute something was shoving him _against_ the dumpster, and he heard the gun go off and ricochet off the metal, and then there was sudden weight on his shoulders—someone _vaulting_ over him, and how was he supposed not to look?

 

When he peered around the dumpster, Stiles saw Greenberg running towards the end of the alley. The only reason the gunman wasn’t shooting at him was because he was currently fighting off—

 

“Hero Dude,” Stiles breathed, and ok, it sounded a lot less impressive a name now that he was seeing the guy do some actual ass-kicking. He totally needed a new name. Maybe Insanely Attractive Body Dude? Because despite the dark alley, Stiles was getting an eyeful of tight leather and rubber, insanely defined muscles, and—were those _claws?_

Hero Dude’s gloves were fingerless from the second knuckle down, and from the way the gunman was grunting the claws were absolutely sharp, or at least really scary. He could hear fabric shredding, and then Hero Dude was down on top of the gunman, one knee pinning down his chest. Stiles had a moment to appreciate the leather stretching down his flanks and over his incredible ass, polished so brightly that it looked almost like patent leather, and up his defined back where it looked like he had some body armor panels to match the ones down his thighs. His uniform was solid black except for the back: there was a large, silver triskele design between his shoulders, and his knee-high boots were more like a matte canvas material, somewhere between motorcycle boots and something out of Tron (what? everyone already knew he was a geek).

 

Basically, his uniform looked like something that Dick Grayson and Chris Redfield’s illegitimate and improbable lovechild would wear. Only tighter, if that was even humanly possible.

 

Greenberg had apparently made it to the cops because there was suddenly a spotlight shining down the alley, and Hero Dude was up and off the gunman faster than you could say 'holy gorgeous calf muscles, Batman.' Stiles watched him hop up onto the fire escape, do some seriously acrobatic shit, and then he was on the roof and gone from sight.

  
Cops were staring to enter the alley and, oops, he was supposed to be at _home._ Stiles scrambled up the fire escape, somehow managing to make it up there before any of the officers noticed him. He barely made it over the edge before he realized he wasn’t alone. He sort of figured Hero Dude would have, well, _run_ for it.

 

“You’re like, the worst superhero ever,” Stiles hissed, walking farther onto the roof and away from the edge. It wasn’t like Hero Dude was going to attack him, right? He was a hero. But Hero Dude didn’t say anything, he just stood there against the side of a chimney, holding his side, and that was about the time that Stiles realized where the ricocheting bullet had gone. “Oh, holy shit, you got _shot_.” And that bullet had been meant for Stiles.

 

“Comes with the territory,” Hero Dude grunted, and it sounded a bit wheezier than when he’d heard him back in the comic book store. Stiles pushed the red hood off his head and edged closer. Up close, the guy wasn’t that much taller than him—maybe an inch or two?—and his insanely shapely upper lip was beaded with sweat. There was a black mask covering the upper half of his face, and it wrapped down to a cowl that cut sharply along his jaw. (And there was that stubble that he’d felt against his lips, holy shit.) There was something oddly _wolfy_ about the shape of it, though Stiles couldn’t pin it down, and since Stiles was all up in Hero Dude's grill he could smell hot leather, blood, a faint hint of really masculine sweat and aftershave.

 

This was the most inappropriate time ever to get a boner. Stiles tried to calm that shit down. It sort of worked.

 

“You need to get to a hospital,” he said, tearing his gaze away from Hero Dude’s hazel eyes and black, black lashes to focus on the dark blood trickling down his side and over the back of his broad hand. He reached out, but Hero Dude _growled_ and then he had claws—oh, man, he hadn’t had claws a second ago, and were those _fangs_? jesuschrist—and he was digging them _into_ himself—“Oh my god, I’m going to be sick.”—and then the bullet plunked down on the roof with a quiet plop and the wound? The wound totally started to close.

 

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Stiles wheezed. “Oh my god. That is not real. _You_ are not real. How did you do that?”

 

“Super-powers,” Hero Dude said and ok, now he was grinning, despite the faint smear of blood on his lips, and Stiles sort of wanted to punch him in the face.

 

“Super-powers aren’t real. Superheroes aren’t real, either! I can't believe you got your ass _shot_ for me.”

 

Hero Dude wiped his hand down his flank, fingering the hole in his uniform where the bullet had been and where Stiles could now see totally healthy skin, and made some sort of disapproving noise. And then he was just walking away, like that was ok, and Stiles was acting on instinct because he grabbed the guy’s upper arm—

 

The guy in the mask whipped around, and holy _shit,_ his eyes flashed _red_ , and then he stalked—stalked!—a step, two steps, and he had his arm around Stiles’ waist and the other hand around the back of his head and this kiss? This kiss had _tongue_ , ok? And far less fang than anticipated. Stiles would have liked to say that he was totally with it enough to respond or something, but he barely managed to get both of his hands onto the guy’s shoulders (and his hips and his _boner,_ thank you, against the guy’s thigh) before Hero Dude broke the kiss.

 

"For the record," the guy practically purred, "it's not 'Hero Dude.' It's Alpha."

 

 

But that clearly wasn't dramatic enough, since he pulled out a fucking _Batarang_ or something, and zip-lined the hell out of there. Just like that. Seriously.

 

Stiles more or less sank to his knees, his eyes wide, his lips a little bruised and a little rug-burned, tasting coffee and mint and a lifetime’s worth of stuff to wank over in the privacy of his own room.

 

“Alpha? Seriously?" he muttered, though it was pretty breathless. He needed to get off the roof and get his ass home before his dad realized he was missing, but that required knees that weren't made of jelly. "And I thought _I_ was a dork. Way better than _Call of Duty_ , though,” he whispered. " _Way_ better."


End file.
